At the Bottom of Everything
by dysprositos
Summary: High School AU. These things seem so important as they're happening, and yet, they can be overshadowed in a heartbeat. All of them have one thing in common: they just want to get through this year. A simple goal. An unreachable one.
1. Wednesday Morning

**Thanks to my beta, irite, for being betamazing, and correcting my use of 'professor' instead of 'teacher.' Oh, high school, it's been a little while, hasn't it?**

**So, I'm not a big fan of AUs, or of high school AUs in particular, but I wanted a challenge. We'll see how it goes.**

**Warnings: this story is going be completely overblown in terms of angst. I've been in a writing funk, and I felt like doing something really self-indulgent to try to get out of it. That said, this story is going to contain alcoholism/drug use, child abuse, bullying, graphic violence, and major character death before it's done. **

**I do not own The Avengers.**

* * *

It was 8:35 AM on a Wednesday, and Tony Stark was just waking up.

Groaning, he cracked his eyes open to glance at the clock before shutting them again quickly as the dull green glow drilled sharply into his skull.

Fuck. He was late. And he'd had a test today, too. Damn it.

He should have been in his chemistry class. He wasn't sure what moron had decided to schedule AP chemistry during first hour, but whoever it was, they must have been sadistic. As if being awake at that unholy hour wasn't enough punishment, they decided to pile chemistry on top of it.

This was his second time in AP chemistry. He'd actually been a year ahead in science when he'd taken it as a junior. But then he'd failed it. It was the only class he'd outright failed last year—all his other teachers had passed him, even though he'd stopped handing in homework after Christmas, and had largely stopped showing up in April. Whether their leniency was due to the fact they knew he didn't need to be there, or to Howard's extremely deep pockets, Tony didn't know and didn't care. That was just always how it went: he did nothing and he passed. His GPA was shit, sure, but it wasn't like any university in the country was going to say no to _Howard Stark's _kid. Not when he practically used money for toilet paper.

The chemistry teacher—Mr. Gardener—was a dick, though, and he'd refused to pass Tony like everyone else had. And now Tony had to take the class again, because if he didn't pass it, he wouldn't have enough credits to graduate.

It wasn't that Tony didn't know the material. He did. He'd gotten the highest possible grade on the AP chemistry test at the end of last year, his failing grade in the class notwithstanding. The material was, honestly, insultingly easy. Stuff he'd figured out on his own in elementary school.

_Everything _was insultingly easy to him, though...except maybe English, but who gave a shit about that anyway? Why bother wasting his time listening to people tell him what he already knew, where there were _so _many more interesting things he could do instead? No one else saw things that way, though, and so Tony taken it upon himself at a young age to manage his own schedule.

He thus had a long and colorful history of truancy issues that had seen him thrown out of two boarding schools, four private schools, and one public school. His parents didn't really have a lot to say about his habit of getting expelled. His mother just sighed and registered him somewhere else when it happened.

His parents didn't have much to say about most things when it came to Tony, really.

Now, Tony was on his second public high school and still, somehow, miraculously on track to graduate on time. All he had to do was pass his classes this year. Easy enough.

Of course, it was 8:35 on a Wednesday morning, and Tony was not in class. So maybe it wasn't going to be as easy as he thought.

It was just, at the moment, he had a killer hangover. Howard and Maria had flown up north to some party to celebrate the signing of a new contract, and they'd left Tony behind with no one but the housekeeping staff for company. He'd managed to amuse himself for a few hours by debugging his new program, but that had only taken until 8:00 or so. After that, he'd decided to take the opportunity to make his way through the rest of the bottle of vodka he'd 'borrowed' from the liquor cabinet downstairs a few days before.

And, well, when he'd finished that, he'd 'borrowed' some whiskey, too.

If Howard noticed that someone was pilfering his liquor stash, he didn't say anything. At least, he didn't say anything to Tony, and Tony took that as permission.

Anyway, it hadn't, admittedly, been the _best _plan Tony had ever had, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time.

Just like how, around midnight, he'd decided to text Pepper. That probably hadn't been the best plan Tony had ever had, either. Especially given her extremely terse reply—Tony winced as he remembered her message, which had more or less amounted to 'go to bed, you're an asshole for waking me up.' Texting her had seemed like a _fantastic _idea at the time (he'd been feeling lonely, as pathetic as that was), and he'd just kind of gone with it.

Perhaps he shouldn't have.

Doing his best to ignore how much he felt like puking—or alternately, curling up under a rock to die—Tony opened his eyes into slits against the light shining in through the curtains before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He stood.

And then promptly lurched for the bathroom as he felt bile climbing up his throat.

After puking, brushing his teeth, taking four Excedrin, showering, and dressing, Tony felt somewhat more human. It was now after 9:00 AM, and he frowned. Second hour was Government, and if he wasn't there, Rhodey was gonna get on his ass about it. Well. He couldn't do anything about it now, he'd just have to deal with the lecture when it came.

It wouldn't be the first lecture he'd sat through.

For breakfast, Tony drank half a bottle of orange juice straight from the container and ate a couple slices of the pizza he had left over from last night. Then he threw a pair of sunglasses on and made his way out the door towards the car parked crookedly in the wide driveway.

If he didn't run into traffic, he'd make it to third hour calculus.

Joy.

* * *

It was 8:35 AM on a Wednesday, and Bruce Banner was taking a chemistry test.

It was the first test of the year, and it wasn't particularly hard, but he was nervous about it anyway. He hadn't had much time to study, and even though he knew the material, sometimes he didn't do so well on tests anyway.

It didn't really help that he was, at the moment, so hungry he could gladly eat the test, ink and all.

He'd crept out of his house at 6:00 in the morning before his parents had gotten up, and he hadn't had any breakfast because he hadn't wanted to make any noise. And really, he'd rather be hungry than deal with, well. What would happen if he made noise in the morning. Being hungry was just a little distracting, was all.

So he'd walked to school in the dark, thankful that, at least, it wasn't raining like it had been yesterday. The doors had been locked when he'd gotten there (as they were every morning), so he'd sat on a bench outside, watching teachers and staff arrive, until a janitor had unlocked them. Then he'd made his way to the library.

The only time he could really study was when he was at the library. He didn't study at home. Ever. That was a good way to get his father started on one of _those _tirades, and _those _tirades could easily escalate from only words flying around to fists.

So no, he didn't study at home.

But then, Bruce didn't spend much time at home. He left early in the morning, usually by 6:30 at the latest. After school, he usually went to the public library until they closed at 8:00. _Then _he'd go home. There, he'd stop in the kitchen just long enough to make himself a sandwich or something before skirting back upstairs to his room. On a good day, he'd make it, and he wouldn't have to see his parents at all.

On a bad day...he wouldn't be so lucky.

So that morning, he'd studied in the school library until 7:50, going over the different elements and seeing how much of the periodic table he already had memorized. As it turned out, it was most of it. When the first bell had rung, Bruce had headed up to his chemistry class. He made a quick stop at his locker—ignoring the large, spiky-lettered 'FREAK' scrawled on it in black sharpie—and grabbed his books for the morning, and then he'd gone to class, doing his best to mentally prepare for dealing with the people at school.

He could try all he wanted; he was never prepared anyway.

Bruce's desk was a little island in the back of the room. No one sat on any side of him, and that suited him pretty well. He tended to have a similar island setup in most of his classes, excepting those in which there were too many students for such a design to be feasible. Then, every desk needed to be utilized, and the other kids usually complained when they had to sit next to him.

He was pretty much used to that, at this point. Sure, it still stung a little bit, but by and large he could ignore them. He'd had a lot of practice. Since that thing in 10th grade, his classmates had more or less treated him like he was contagious. In the subsequent two years, the rest of the school had pretty much come to adhere to that, too. Including, interestingly enough, the new freshmen.

Bruce sometimes wondered who told them what had happened, if _anyone _did, or if it was just part of the lore of the school at this point.

From the vantage point of his desk island, Bruce had been able to survey the rest of the class fairly well. It had looked like everyone was there, except Stark. Which wasn't surprising—Stark was almost never there. But it seemed strange that he would miss a test.

Or not, really. He'd already failed the class once, so the rumors went.

Everything had seemed fairly normal, really. The only weird thing was, a few seats over, one of the juniors in the class had been scowling down at the desk in front of him, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He'd slipped into the room just before the bell and had practically thrown his bag on the ground before hurling himself into his seat. He'd seemed pretty angry about something, but that wasn't so odd. This was high school. It was full of assholes, and there was a lot to be angry about.

Bruce hadn't had really time to muse any further on that before the test had been passed out and he'd gotten to work.

When he finished (with half an hour left in the class), he got up and turned his paper in before making his way back to his seat. He thought he'd done well. He hoped. He was actually taking this class for fun—during his junior year, he'd taken both AP physics and AP biology, so he was all set on his science requirements. This was mostly a way to fill up his schedule so that he didn't have to take an elective like art or something.

God, he was such a _nerd_. Maybe there really _was _something wrong with him.

Well, it wasn't like there was really any doubt of that, was it? It wasn't really a secret, either.

With a small sigh and shake of his head, Bruce pulled out the novel he'd been assigned for his English class.

* * *

It was 8:35 AM on a Wednesday, and Clint Barton was trying to explain _A Farewell to Arms_ to his English class.

This was hindered greatly by the fact that he had not actually read _A Farewell to Arms_. And he could tell he was doing a piss poor job of hiding that, because Natasha was practically laughing at him from across the room.

"And then, um, the nurse died. It was sad," Clint concluded lamely, looking down at his desk.

"A stunning analysis of the novel, Barton," came Mr. Martin's acidic voice from where he was leaning against his desk. "I have never heard such an astute summary of Hemingway in my twenty-five years of teaching."

Before Clint could snap something back—and get suspended, probably, given his track record in this class—Martin went on, "Would anyone else like to astound me with their insight?" He looked around the room. "Romanoff?"

Head cocked just _slightly _to one side, Natasha nodded, then launched into a clear, concise explanation of the themes in the novel.

When Martin's back was turned, Clint stuck his tongue out at her.

The kid next to him—Steve, resident goody two shoes jerk—shot him a mildly disapproving look.

Whatever.

It wasn't that Clint didn't like to read. He did. He might have even have liked _A Farewell to Arms_ if he'd managed to finish it. He just hadn't had _time_. Barney had managed to get him an extra couple of shifts at the bar, and Clint had been bussing tables and tending bar the last three nights. It had been unusually busy, and he hadn't had time to read the giant novel.

Which Natasha _knew_, so he didn't know why she was laughing at him.

She was just mean.

When Natasha had finished her perfect analysis of the novel, Martin finally shut up and divided them into groups to talk about the book in more detail. As usual, Clint and Natasha were assigned to separate groups and, as usual, they ignored that and grouped together anyway.

They were with Steve, one of Natasha's friends named Peggy, and some kid Clint knew from a few of his other classes but had never actually talked to. He was from Denmark or Norway or something, and he'd started school in the middle of the last year. Also, his parents apparently hated him, because they had named him Thor.

Cruel.

When they'd pulled their desks together, everyone in the group looked at Natasha expectantly. She rolled her eyes. "What? Didn't _any _of you read the book?"

"I did," Peggy answered.

"I know _you _did," Natasha replied with a smirk. "Clint?"

Clint shrugged. "You know I didn't. I was busy." It wasn't like he could say 'no' to an extra shift or two or three at the bar. He needed the money. And Barney would kill him if he passed that up.

Steve gave a half smile. "I was busy, too. Sorry, guys."

"Thor?" Natasha asked, eyebrow raised.

He nodded. "I did read it. Though I did not particularly like it."

"Well," Clint said easily, "You'n'me've got that in common."

"You didn't even read it," Natasha pointed out.

"I read enough," he replied. "And I looked it up online. It's got, like, this perfect happy ending, right? But then the woman just _dies _for no good damn reason."

"Language, Barton!" Martin called from across the room. Clint ignored him completely.

"It did seem quite sudden," Thor agreed, after glancing cautiously over at Martin.

Clint nodded enthusiastically. "I mean, what's the fucking point of killing her off? What's it do?"

"Barton! Detention!"

Clint frowned.

Well, at least it was only his first detention this week.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Chapter 2 is written, but I'm not sure on when it'll be posted. I'm anticipating this being fairly long, although hopefully not a 100k behemoth.**

**Reviews are always welcome.**


	2. Night

**Warnings: abuse, Tony's colorful language and tendency to drink too much.**

**Many thanks to my beta, irite, for helping me keep these snot-nosed whippersnappers in line.**

**I do not own The Avengers.**

* * *

Howard and Maria came home late Wednesday night, but Tony was still awake when they got there. Largely because he hadn't been expecting them home until Thursday morning at the earliest and hadn't thought to slink up to his room to avoid them. So when he came upstairs from his 'workshop' in the basement, he was surprised to find his parents in the living room.

Surprised, and dismayed. He'd had a few beers while he worked on his new program, and by a few minutes before midnight, he wasn't...strictly...sober.

Which he felt was perfectly justified. He'd had kind of a rough day, and he'd wanted to relax. It was just shitty timing on his parents' fault, that was all.

Tony _had _managed to get to school in time for third hour, and his hangover finally started to abate by lunch time. Which was good, because that was when Rhodey found him and decided to launch into his very well-scripted lecture. He got a lot of practice using it, after all.

The gist of it was that 'drinking on weekdays is stupid' and 'you need to stop' and 'Tony what you're doing is dangerous' and a bunch of other crap that Tony had already heard and chosen to ignore. Honestly, this wasn't the first time he'd missed school because of a hangover, and drinking on a weekday certainly wasn't the worst thing he'd ever done. By a long shot. He appreciated Rhodey's concern, though. Okay, maybe it was kind of annoying, but he wasn't going to try to push him away. Rhodey was one of the few people at this school who didn't think Tony was a rich, spoiled asshole. Which, to be fair, was an image Tony cultivated carefully. But still, it meant he didn't really have...friends.

Rhodey lectured him through most of lunch, and then Tony went to fourth hour French. This was the only class he had with his on-again, off-again girlfriend, Virginia 'Pepper' Potts. At the moment, they were 'off,' largely due to the fact that Tony was, as Pepper said, 'a selfish, immature, idiotic moron.' He'd take her word for it. Just because he tended to call her when he'd had a few too many, and that he forgot her birthday, and that he'd stuck her with the awful nickname of 'Pepper,' and that he tended to ignore her in favor of coding for weeks at a time, well, if that made him selfish, then selfish he was.

After French came fifth and sixth hours, which were Tony's least favorite, since they were English and Economics, two subjects that he didn't give a fuck about. And they'd had a pop quiz in English over the book they were supposed to be reading. Tony had considered just failing it outright (since he hadn't touched the book) but instead he'd decided to copy off the super weird kid who sat next to him. Banner. Who also happened to be in most of his other classes, since they were both doing the advanced-college-track thing. 'Course, the kid usually sat in the back corner of the room, but Martin was an asshole and he had a seating chart, so Banner had ended up wedged between Tony and some girl named Betty.

The only problem with Tony's brilliant plan of cheating was that he'd gotten _caught _cheating off Banner, and they'd both been sent to the office. So after all that work, Tony had failed the quiz anyway. To add insult to injury, the vice principal had called home and left a message about what had happened, due to the 'seriousness of the transgression' (cheating was, apparently, grounds for expulsion, though Tony couldn't figure out why he wasn't actually being expelled) and then Tony had been given detention. Banner had been, too, which Tony wasn't sure was fair, but he wasn't about to step up and say the kid hadn't been _letting_ him copy.

What the hell did he look like, some kind of Samaritan?

After school (and his detention), Tony had driven home, and had gotten stuck in a god damn traffic jam on the way. By the time he finally got home (and deleted the message the principal had left about his little literature-related mishap), he was more than ready to chill the fuck out for a few hours.

So he'd broken into Howard's craft beer stash.

That had been five hours ago.

Now, after his already-shitastic day, he was faced with the awkward situation in which he was drunk and about to face his parents.

When he burst into the room, on his way to the stairs, both Howard and Maria glanced at him before returning to their tasks.

He froze, surprised to find them there. Shit. He generally kept his extracurriculars below the radar, but this was kind of obvious. What if they noticed? What would they say?

For some reason...that actually mattered to him.

"Tony," Howard said, staring down at his Blackberry, reading.

"Mom. Dad. Um. You're early." He swayed in place, stumbling forward a step before catching his balance. "I didn't think you'd be home tonight." The words felt awkward in his mouth, fuzzy and overly loud.

Neither of his parents noticed anything, though, not his difficulty speaking nor his lack of coordination.

And he'd been worried about what they'd say if they knew.

He should have known better.

"I'm having lunch with one of my contractors tomorrow," Howard answered absently. "There's an issue with the new building." He began typing something on his phone.

Not looking up from the tablet she was reading, Maria added, "And I have a meeting with the people from the charity."

Neither of them said anything else.

Tony watched them for a moment more, but the silence stretched on, and so he slowly turned and made his way upstairs.

He glanced at the pile of textbooks on his desk and considered, briefly, actually doing his homework, but instead he flopped down onto his bed. It was late, and he was tired (drunk, really, but there wasn't really much of a difference), and he thought it might be better to get some sleep so that he might _actually _make it to chemistry in the morning.

Might.

* * *

Bruce decided he was going to kill Tony Stark.

That asshole. That stupid, selfish _asshole_.

It was 5:00 PM, and Bruce was stomping to the library. He'd just gotten out of detention—which he'd spent glaring at the back of Stark's stupid head—half an hour ago, and he was still angry about what had landed him there. Or rather, _who_.

Tony _Fucking _Stark.

Bruce forced himself to take a deep breath and focused on relaxing his shoulders. It wasn't good for him to get angry. He knew that. Oh _god _did he know it. And if he ever forgot, he had his juvenile records to remind him.

But god damn it, he was so pissed off.

He'd just been taking his quiz in English class when the teacher—Mr. Martin—had yanked both him and Stark up to the front of the room. Bruce hadn't know what was going up until the teacher had started chewing them out for cheating, or in Bruce's case, for letting Tony cheat off of him, and then he'd dragged them to the principal's office.

The principal had been too busy to deal with them, though, and his secretary had redirected them to the vice principal, Ms. Hill. She was definitely a no-nonsense sort, Ms. Hill, a fact Bruce quickly came to appreciate as she assigned both him and Stark to detention before Martin had even finished explaining why he'd dragged them there.

So, yeah, they'd both gotten detention, and that would have been completely fine with Bruce, but then the vice principal decided to call their parents in addition to that, since cheating was seriously frowned upon. Grounds for expulsion, apparently, as Hill explained to Bruce's mother over the phone. Bruce had winced, listening. But it was his first infraction, so they were going to go easy on him.

Right. _They _would. But the same couldn't be said for everyone.

Because Bruce wasn't stupid enough to think that she wouldn't tell his father what had happened the minute he got home from the university. And he knew what would happen then.

It just made him angrier, to think about it.

By the time he got to the library, though, he'd calmed down some, his anger giving way to a slowly simmering anxiety. Still, he pulled out his laptop (school issued—his parents had the money to get him one of his own, but he wasn't stupid enough to ask), and settled down to work on his paper for English class. He needed to get a really good grade on it, now that he'd failed a quiz.

When the library closed, he'd made some good progress on the paper, having finished three out of ten pages. He might have managed to do more if he hadn't been feeling more and more apprehensive about what was coming. As it was, his stomach was tying itself in knots and he felt he might throw up what he'd managed to eat at lunch in between dodging spitballs and verbal abuse.

Slowly, slowly, he walked home, dragging his feet.

At his house, there was a single light on in a downstairs window, and Bruce quietly made his way to the back door and let himself in, closing the door behind him with a nearly-inaudible 'click.'

The kitchen was dark and, hungry as he was, he didn't stop to make himself anything to eat. He thought, maybe, if he could get upstairs without his father noticing him...

"Bruce."

Damn it.

"Come here."

Bruce sighed, a small, resigned exhalation, and then made his way to the front of the house.

His parents were both in the living room, watching television. When Bruce stepped into the living room, his mother stood and left the room wordlessly.

Bruce swallowed.

For a minute, Bruce's father remained sitting, watching the program and sipping a beer. Bruce shifted his weight nervously from foot to foot. He _hated _this part, the waiting. Anticipating.

But then the show went to a commercial break, and his father stood up and stepped to the center of the room. "Come here, Bruce."

He did.

"I heard you were cheating in class today." He paused, and then smirked. "Didn't know you knew how to do something so _normal_."

And even though he knew it was a bad idea, even though he knew he should just shut up, Bruce answered, "I wasn't cheating. Another kid was copying my test."

His father's eyes flashed, and quick as lightning, he backhanded Bruce across the face, hard. "I should have known. God damn freak, that's what you are."

Bruce managed to avoid falling over, barely, as his head snapped back and his glasses went flying off his face. He caught himself and stood, back against the wall, tense and waiting for whatever would happen next.

But his father was apparently feeling generous tonight, because he was already sitting back down. "Get the hell out of my sight, freak."

Bruce was more than happy to oblige. Picking up his glasses—which were now bent, _again_—he slipped out of the room silently.

As he scurried back through the kitchen, he found his mother leaning against the counter, rubbing her forehead with one hand. Wordlessly, she handed him a dish towel wrapped around a handful of ice. She would not meet his eyes.

Bruce accepted it, looking down. He pressed the makeshift ice pack to his face, just under his right eye, where he could already feel a bruise forming. With a bit of luck, it wouldn't be too noticeable...not that anyone was likely to say anything, anyway.

Still pressing the ice to his face, Bruce made his way upstairs. It was pretty early, but he was going to go to bed.

He had to be up early, after all.

* * *

Detention had been a little more interesting than it usually was.

For once, it was more than just him. Well, and the usual losers stuck in there with him. Clint had been surprised to see that two of those really smart, all-AP-classes, college-track kids had been there today. One of them was that rich asshole, Tony Stark. And the other one...Clint couldn't remember his name. He just knew him as 'that weird guy.'

Anyway, there had apparently been some sort of cheating incident in their English class. Who knew that smart people cheated?

Clint honestly wasn't surprised. It had been his experience that _everyone _cheated, and those stuck up smartasses were no exception.

Really, the only surprising thing was...why would anyone would choose to take advanced English, when regular English was bad enough?

There had also been a few kids in detention who'd been caught heckling one of the younger students. Thor's younger brother, actually, who had the misfortune to be named 'Loki.' The bullies had been in the process of simultaneously graffitiing his locker and roughing him up before first hour when the government teacher—Coulson—had happened by. And he hadn't been too impressed with their activities, or so Natasha said. She'd been watching the proceedings from a safe and subtle distance.

Honestly, she was creepy sometimes.

Anyway, Coulson had chewed the bullies out, and Clint wished he could have seen it, too. That man could be impressively intimidating, given the fact he was in his mid-forties and balding.

Of course, from the whispers Clint had been able to hear in detention, Coulson's intervention wasn't going to work out in Loki's favor. It just seemed to have made the bullies angrier. And it had looked like one of them was working on some kind of art project that looked _really _inappropriate...

But that was so far down on the list of things that weren't Clint's business, what could he do about it?

No, he'd spent detention trying to finish _A Farewell to Arms_. Better late than never, right?

When he'd gotten home, he'd only had half an hour before he needed to be at work. Normally, he'd go bother Nat (who'd moved in across the hall a year ago and abruptly introduced herself with a 'Hey, I'm Natasha, leave me the fuck alone'), but she'd told him that she wasn't going to be home until later, so he'd just thrown his stuff on his bed and headed downstairs to the bar. Barney had been working in the kitchen, and he'd thrown a more-or-less edible sandwich at Clint, who wasn't picky enough to say no.

The bar closed at midnight, and they had a pretty steady stream of customers until closing. By the time everything had been cleaned up, it was about 12:30, and Clint was ready to go to bed.

Upstairs, he saw that Barney was out, which suited him just fine. His brother's snoring was enough to keep him awake half the damn night, and since they shared the bedroom, there wasn't a whole hell of a lot Clint could do about it.

Clint had just changed into his pajamas when he got a text message.

'Gonna come over or what?' it said.

Clint sighed. Natasha had _fantastic _timing.

Not bothering to change out of his pajamas, or even to put shoes on, Clint padded out his door and across the hall. He opened the door to Natasha's apartment without knocking and slipped inside.

Natasha's apartment was unusually nice. It wasn't anything fancy, but considering the fact she wasn't even eighteen yet, and shouldn't have been living on her own at all? It was great. For one, she had actual furniture that put him and Barney to shame. She had decor. She had throw rugs, and throw pillows, and a television. She had a movie collection. And her own, non-school issued laptop. And pots and pans.

All kinds of stuff that Clint sure as hell didn't have.

Clint wasn't sure how she afforded the place. She never, to his knowledge, went to work. In fact, she seemed to spend almost all of her time at home. But he wasn't going to ask. Seemed rude. And if she wanted him to know, then, she'd tell him.

Right?

Natasha was on her couch, laptop on her lap, and she looked up when he came into the living room before closing the computer and setting it aside. "How was work?"

Clint shrugged, flopping into 'his' chair. "Boring. Full of assholes. The usual."

Natasha nodded sagely. "Well, I mean, at least this is your last year there, right? Then you're going to college." Her tone left no room for argument.

Clint rolled his eyes, though. He wasn't in the mood for _this _again. "No, Nat, I'm not. I haven't even applied anywhere. I can't _afford _to go to college."

One corner of her mouth curling up, Natasha answered, "Well, no, _you_ haven't applied anywhere, but that doesn't mean you're not applying anywhere." She paused. "Honestly, give me some credit."

Clint narrowed his eyes. "What?"

"I took the liberty of filling out some applications. You just need to write the essays."

"...Really?" That didn't seem right. Seemed too easy. Sure, he'd already taken the ACT, at least—it was mandatory in this state, and the school covered the cost—and he'd done okay. Math had been a little rough, though. And he hadn't bothered to have his scores sent anywhere, and that could get expensive...

"Nat, my test scores—"

Dismissively, she said, "Don't worry about it."

"Application fees, though?" Clint returned aggressively. He wasn't stupid, he knew how much that could cost, and he couldn't spare that kind of money right now.

"I'll take care of it."

"I can't let you—"

"I didn't say I'd pay for it, dumbass, I said I'd take care of it. There's waivers you can get. Just leave it to me. And write the damn essays." She pulled a stack of papers seemingly out of nowhere and thrust them at him. "I would suggest not writing about _A Farewell to Arms _though. Just an idea."

Clint made a face at her, but accepted the stack of papers. "Nat, I can't—"

"Write about _A Farewell to Arms_, I know. I'm sure you'll think of something else."

Clint refrained from sticking his tongue out at her, barely. "But what if I actually get in? I can't afford—"

She sighed. "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. Now go to bed and get some damn sleep."

And he wasn't really one to disobey a direct order. "Yes ma'am."

As he stood up and headed for the door, she grabbed her laptop and flipped it open again and, after a moment, began typing furiously.

Huh.

* * *

**Reviews make me happy. Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed the first chapter. You're all fantastic.**

**Part 3 is underway, but there's no estimate for a completion date at the moment.**


	3. Strange Days Indeed

**Thanks to my beta, irite, for being fantastic all around.**

**Warnings: um...none? I think this chapter's okay.**

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Bruce had left the house at his customary 6:00 AM.

But when he'd gotten to school, someone had been sitting on his bench.

Okay, sure, it wasn't 'his' bench. He didn't own it. But it was always where he sat while he waited for the school doors to open. He'd begun to feel possessive of it.

Besides, it wasn't like there was _ever _anyone else out and about at this unfortunate early hour.

There was another bench just past it, though, and that was empty. Sure, it was weird that someone else had shown up at school two hours early, but it wasn't _that _weird. Just a little bit. So Bruce approached cautiously, thinking only vaguely of ax murderers and muggers.

It was a girl.

Which didn't rule out the ax murderer/mugger thing, but did make it somewhat less likely.

Also, girls were about as terrifying as ax murderers, so. There was that.

He considered turning and walking back the way he'd come, but that seemed ridiculous even for him. Instead, he just altered his course a little bit to loop around her and get to the empty bench.

Except she called, "Hey, I need to talk to you," as he attempted to slip around behind her.

"Um. Me?" he asked, incredulous and more than a little embarrassed. He'd kind of been hoping that she wouldn't notice him. It also struck him as odd that someone was waiting outside school in the very early morning to talk to him. Yeah, nothing odd about that _at all_.

"No, the _other_ guy creeping around behind me. Yes, you."

Slowly, he walked over. It had been hard to tell in the dim pre-dawn light, but once he got closer, he recognized her. She was in his world history class sixth hour. Natasha. She was both intimidatingly attractive and insanely good at history, to the point that Bruce wondered if she'd memorized the book at some point.

Of course, in the last month of classes, she'd never spoken a word to him, so he was curious what she wanted. The only person she talked to with any regularity, at least that Bruce had noticed, was Clint Barton, another kid in their class. Bruce figured they were dating.

"You're in AP Calculus, right?" Natasha asked when he was close enough.

"Um, yeah. I am." He lingered back a little bit, hands in his pockets, wishing he could put his heavy backpack down.

She nodded. "Do you do tutoring? For lower math classes, I mean."

Ah. That explained why she was talking to him. It was still weird that she was asking, though—didn't she know that no one in their right mind would ask him for help? No one in their right mind would even _talk_ to him. Then again, it was very, very early. Maybe she was sleep deprived.

"No," he answered honestly. Then, because he wanted to stretch this conversation out as long as he could, he added, "No one's ever asked."

"Would you mind trying?" Calm, to the point. No indication at all that she felt this conversation was awkward.

Bruce could not, for the life of him, figure out why she was so insistent. Most people wouldn't even acknowledge him, let alone ask him for something, let alone _insist_. This was _weird_. Why would she pick him for this at all?

As if reading his mind, Natasha said, "I may have gotten a look at your state test scores. You scored the highest in our class on the math section." She shrugged. "Figured it was worth a shot to ask."

That was creepy. And kind of invasive. "How did you—"

"I was a TA in the office last year. Look, will you do it or not?"

Overwhelmed, Bruce managed, "Um, well...what do you need help with?"

Natasha shook her head briskly. "Not me. My friend, Clint. He needs to get his math grade up if he's going to get into college."

"Then why doesn't he just ask me himself?" Bruce immediately wished he hadn't spoken. That was _way _too confrontational.

Also, wasn't it awfully late to be applying to college? He'd sent his stuff out a while ago. He remembered that distinctly because 1. He'd applied to Harvard, and 2. He'd had to ask his parents for money to do it.

And that had gone _swimmingly_.

"He doesn't know I'm asking," Natasha admitted, as if Bruce's suspicion were par for the course. "Will you do it or not?"

This was strange all around. This was also the longest conversation he'd had with another person in months. And the fact that Natasha wasn't treating him like he was diseased, that she actually wanted him to help her...it was nice to be wanted, for once. And so, even though his instincts were screaming at him, he reluctantly agreed, "Uh, yeah. I guess. But if he doesn't know you're asking, how's this going to work?"

Natasha shrugged easily. "I'll be paying you, so he won't mind. I'll just tell him that he's meeting you for tutoring. He'll do it if he knows what's good for him." She glanced over towards the front of the building, where a janitor was unlocking the doors. "What's a good time for you?"

Bruce had not even considered payment, so that was a nice surprise. As for her question, well, that was easy enough. Any time. He didn't have a pressing social calendar. "Whenever's good for him, I guess?"

"Okay," Natasha replied. "I'll get his work schedule and let you know. What's your phone number?"

"I...don't have a cell phone," Bruce admitted. That was one of the many things he was smart enough not to mention to his parents. And it wasn't like he had anyone to call, anyway. He didn't really mind not having one.

Natasha just nodded, though, calm as always. "I'll find you, then." She stood up. "Thanks, by the way. He needs all the help he can get."

"Um, no problem," Bruce said. And it really wasn't. As intimidating as the idea of actually _talking _to another person was, he couldn't deny that a tiny part of him was thrilled by the idea.

Natasha picked up her bag and straightened. She paused for a moment, meeting Bruce's eyes, and then she frowned minutely.

But she didn't say anything, and she didn't act like anything was amiss, and Bruce was left wondering if he was just so unused to human contact that he was imagining things.

Together, though not exactly 'together,' the two of them went into the building. Bruce made a beeline for the library.

He needed to do some stuff before AP Chemistry.

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It was about five minutes until the first bell, and Tony was damn impressed with himself because he'd managed to get to school on time for once. Early, even. As in, first hour hadn't even started yet.

And for once, he was glad he'd been on time. Because otherwise, he'd've missed this.

Slowly, Tony cocked his head to one side and narrowed his eyes. Then he cocked his head the other way.

He chuckled.

This was more or less the reaction of everyone around him. They had assembled in a small crowd around a copy of the new poster that had appeared approximately a thousand times in various places throughout the school. Tony had seen teachers and administrators frantically trying to remove them as he came into the school, but they hadn't gotten to all of them yet. This particular incarnation was plastered on the door to the library.

The poster in question was, Tony thought, creative, though perhaps the execution could have been a bit better. But then, the artist was probably a high school student, so, what could you expect, really?

Still, far as Photoshop went, it wasn't half bad. The poster depicted some woman from what Tony assumed was some kinky porn website (he wouldn't know, he _certainly _never looked at that sort of thing) getting, to put it bluntly, fucked by a horse. Except instead of a woman, the artist had stuck some kid's face on her instead. And Tony knew that kid—he was in AP Chemistry. Loki Somethingorother. Quiet kid, seemed smart enough. He had a brother named Thor Somethingorother, who was, to Tony's knowledge, rather less smart and rather more popular although still cursed with a dumb name.

Suddenly, the giggles surrounding Tony went silent and he could hear footsteps approaching. A heartbeat later, an icy, accented voice stated flatly, "Ah. Someone has done a google search, I see. How...amusing."

Tony turned.

Loki's face was bright red, but Tony honestly couldn't tell if it was from humiliation or anger. In this instance, it might be both. He was scowling deeply, though, so that seemed to point to 'anger.'

Tony just hoped he wasn't going to cry. He _hated _it when people cried.

Everyone who had, just moments before, been chuckling at the poster slowly dispersed, muttering quietly amongst themselves. The occasional giggle could be heard echoing down the halls. But within ten seconds, the crowd had dispersed, leaving Tony and Loki more or less alone.

Roughly, Loki pushed past Tony and grabbed the poster, tearing it off the door. He crumpled it in one hand.

Before he could stomp down the hall, though, Tony turned and called, "Hey, wait. What do you mean, 'someone did a Google search?'"

Loki turned to face him, and his expression could be best described as 'disdainful.' "'Loki' is a figure in Norse mythology. At one point, he took the form of a mare and had intercourse with a stallion." He sniffed. "Clearly, someone found that fact to be fodder for their little...prank, as if I am actually 'Loki' and not just a hapless victim of my parents' idiocy."

Tony had never actually heard anyone use the word 'fodder' before. But he didn't have anything to say to that, so he just replied, "Huh. That's...interesting."

Loki didn't even bother acknowledging Tony's asinine statement before he turned and strode down the hallway, poster still held in one clenched, white-knuckled fist.

For a moment, Tony watched him go, but then the first bell rang.

And someone came barreling out of the library, whacking Tony in the back on the head with the door.

"Ow! God damn it!" He turned around. "Watch where you're going, for fuck's sake. Oh. It's you."

Banner. And he did not, to Tony's eye, look at all remorseful for hitting him with a door.

This assumption was confirmed by Banner's glare and angry, "What do you want?"

"Eighteen more hours of sleep or about six cups of coffee. But I'd settle for you not being a dick."

Banner's mouth fell open. "I'm a… _I'm _a dick?"

"You _did _just hit me with a door," Tony pointed out. "And you didn't say you were sorry."

There was a beat of silence and then, "Sorry."

It was the most hostile apology Tony had ever heard.

But it was all he was getting. Banner turned and stalked away.

Tony wasn't done yet, though. _That _did _not _count as an apology.

He trotted to catch up to Banner, who'd almost made it to the stairs. They were headed to the same place, anyway. "You're not angry about that thing in English yesterday, are you?" Honestly, Tony had gotten over that ages ago.

Banner didn't answer.

Despite the frequency with which it happened, Tony hated being ignored. "Come on. Don't be a dick. That was _yesterday_."

"And yet," Bruce replied acidly, glaring down as he stomped upstairs, "I'm still failing English today. How odd."

Oh, yeah, Some people actually cared about that sort of thing. _He _didn't, but evidently Banner did. And he wasn't going to get the stick out of his ass until Tony apologized for ruining what was (Tony assumed) his perfect 4.0 GPA. "Okay. Fine. I'm sorry. Better?"

No answer. Maybe Banner was just _never _going to get the stick out of his ass.

They were just outside the chemistry classroom now, and Tony reached out and grabbed Banner's arm to stop him from slipping in before he'd managed to get the last word. "Dude, chill—"

He was interrupted by the way Banner flinched away from him, yanking his arm back and holding it close to his body. Quickly, though, he recovered. At least, he relaxed and muttered a bitter, "Don't touch me."

He went into the chemistry room, stalking to his empty corner.

Tony reflected on the fact that he was just impressing people left and right this morning. Were people always _this _rude this early?

* * *

"I found you a math tutor," Natasha said, sliding in across the table from him.

Clint had not been aware he'd been in the market for a math tutor. "Oh." Then, "Who?"

"Bruce Banner."

To his credit, Clint did not choke on the slice of pizza he was eating. Not even a little bit. He just swallowed and answered calmly, "Ah."

They ate in silence for a moment, Natasha digging into her pizza with somewhat less gusto and more poise than Clint could ever manage.

When he'd had a few more bites, Clint decided to broach the topic. "Bruce Banner? Really?"

As if she'd been anticipating this (and honestly, she probably had been; she knew his reactions almost better than he did), Natasha rattled off, "Look, he's got the best test scores in the school. He's pulling straight As in AP calculus. I heard he applied to Harvard. There's no one better to get your sorry ass in shape."

Which was probably all true, but Clint felt obligated to point out, "Nat, that guy's a freak. He assaulted—"

She interrupted, "That was, like, a one time thing."

"Was it?" Clint countered. "And who's to say it's not going to be a 'two time' thing?"

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Look, he was provoked. And I'd like to think you can refrain from poking at him 'til he blows." She narrowed her eyes. "Or am I asking too much?"

Clint was curious exactly how much Natasha knew about Banner—it seemed to be more than _he _knew—but he knew that expression, and he knew not to argue with it. "No. Fine. Whatever. When am I meeting him?"

"When's a good time for you?"

"Like you don't know," Clint scoffed. Honestly, she had his schedule down pat.

"I was asking to be polite," Natasha replied. "I was thinking Saturday morning. Early."

Clint managed to refrain from groaning. "Saturday? Really? Nat, I need to _sleep_." He hadn't gotten more than five or six hours a night in _weeks_.

Dismissively, she said, "You can sleep when you're dead, Barton. I'm pretty sure Banner won't mind meeting at 8:00. I'll tell him you'll be at the library then."

"Wait..." Clint hedged. "Don't you mean 'we' will be at the library?"

Natasha shrugged. "My math grades are fine." And then, "And I want to sleep in on Saturday."

Clint scowled. He knew her math grades were fine. Better than fine. She had to have something like 103% in the class. In fact, he suspected that the only reason she was in the same math class as he was (the lowest math class in their grade) at all was that she was more interested in sticking with him than in furthering her mathematical skills.

And he had to admit, he was grateful. She was the only reason he'd managed to stay afloat for so long.

So he wiped the frown off his face and said, "Fine. Tell Banner I'll meet him at the library on Saturday at ass o'clock in the morning. Okay?"

Natasha nodded, the shadow of a smug smirk on her face. "Sounds good."

Clint sighed. He knew this whole 'college' thing was important—to Natasha, at least, if not to him—but god _damn, _it was a lot of work.

To distract himself, he asked her, "So, did you see those posters this morning?" Most of them had been gone by the time Clint had gotten to school—so people were saying—but he'd still seen one that the teachers had missed. He had to hand it to the kid who'd made them. He'd managed to put them together _fast_. He'd been working on the design in detention last night, after all. At least, Clint was fairly sure that was the case; he hadn't been looking too closely at the kid's artwork.

"Yes," Natasha answered, a distasteful expression on her face. "Honestly, that Loki kid is an asshole, but that was...childish."

"Is he?" Clint prompted. He'd never talked to the kid.

Shrugging, Natasha answered, "You remember that thing last year, with the kid who went into anaphylactic shock during lunch?"

Clint nodded. It had been a freshman, and the kid had nearly died. It'd been all over the news, and some people from the health department had come in to inspect the cafeteria since the kid's food allergies had been well-documented or whatever.

Natasha went on, "I have it on pretty good authority that Loki spiked his lunch. Thought it would be funny. I heard him and his brother arguing about it after school, apparently it's not the first time he's done something like that. He calls them 'pranks,' but that kid and his friends had been bullying him for weeks. Doesn't seem like a prank to me." She frowned.

"Geez," Clint muttered. "Maybe Mr. Coulson should just let those guys kick Loki's ass next time. Might do the punk some good." He took a vehement bite of pizza.

Natasha tilted her head to the side. "I think those guys are in way over their heads with him. They don't know who they're messing with." She paused, then added, "I think they're going to regret it."

She was stopped from saying anything else by the bell announcing the end of lunch. As they both gathered up their stuff, though, Natasha reminded Clint, "I'll tell Banner to meet you on Saturday at 8:00. Okay?"

"Yeah, mom," Clint muttered, slinging his backpack over his shoulder and ducking the punch Natasha aimed at his shoulder.

He wanted to get to class without any new bruises, thanks very much.

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